


You'll Always Be My Favorite Ghost

by missouterspace



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Hannigram - Freeform, M/M, TW: Blood, tw: death, tw: gore, tw: injury, tw: stockholm syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27537634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missouterspace/pseuds/missouterspace
Summary: Season two finale re-imagined. What if Hannibal had taken Will to Europe with him? Would Will forgive him? Or is their relationship impossible to mend? Hannibal offers an intricate surprise and Will faces a choice that will change the course of his life forever.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 41





	You'll Always Be My Favorite Ghost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cunning_capra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cunning_capra/gifts).



> Trigger Warnings: murder mention, cannibalism mention, very brief retelling of a fairytale that mentions the subject of incest (completely inconsequential to the plot, but it is mentioned so I thought I’d warn y’all), death mention, blood mention, injury, angst, subtle hints of Stockholm Syndrome
> 
> This fic was a birthday gift for one of my best friends, I hope you all enjoy it too!

Will knows as soon as he wakes that something is off- it's too quiet, he slept too well, there isn't a cold wet nose pressed into his hand to beg for food. He's not home. Not in his usual home anyway. Blue eyes squint as the sunshine washes over him and despite the pain burning in his abdomen, he raises a hand to shield his face from the excruciating light. The last thing he remembers is bleeding out on Hannibal's kitchen floor and feeling his life drain out of him. No that's not quite right. He has vague images, flashes of incoherent memories that he isn't entirely convinced are real, but that last thing he tangibly remembers is being wheeled through Baltimore International's TSA.

Sitting up isn't pleasant, the effort gives Will the sensation that he's being split open again, but he manages to prop himself up against the plush pillows. The bed is large, much softer than his mattress back at home and yet somehow he is more uncomfortable. The room is spacious, exotic decor littering the walls in a way he personally finds distasteful, but he won't complain- he's alive and breathing. Maybe he should complain. In the corner of the room opposite of the bed is a window that overlooks a city he does not recognize and it only takes him a few seconds to realize he is the farthest away from home he's ever been. "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto," he mutters bitterly under his breath, the mere effort of speaking suddenly the hardest thing he's ever done. His throat is dry, his voice weak. He wonders when the last time he's had any water. On the plane.  
Tipping his head back against the bed frame, he allows his eyes to close and his breathing to slow. If he focuses hard enough, he can remember. He can remember getting through airline security, but he cannot remember who was pushing him in the wheel chair he found himself confined in. He can remember being stitched up, but he doesn't remember being in a hospital. There's a gap between when he closed his eyes to accept death and the brief moments of consciousness he can recall. Who carried him out of the house? His eyes snap open, cutting himself off from remembering what he knows is true. Even before he hears the familiar footsteps outside of the room, he knows it's him.

The door opens and Will feels defenseless, unarmed and weak from the pain. When his eyes land on Hannibal, his gut lurches and he can feel the sharp sting of the knife in his stomach ripping him open all over again. And Abigail...all he feels in this moment is the deep ache of betrayal. "Come to gloat, Hannibal?" But the pleasant expression on the other man's face tells him everything. Hannibal isn't here to twist the knife in deeper, he's here to ease the pain. The man crosses the room with confident steps, a certain gleam of worry in his eyes where Will had expected pride.

"How are you feeling, Will?" It's a simple question. Straightforward, and yet Will can't help but feel there is so much more behind those empty words.

"You should know. You seemed to know exactly what you were doing when you cut me open." His voice cracks under the weight of what he's said, but he forces himself to go on. "If you intended to keep me alive, why did you do it? To make me weak? To wound me? To teach me a lesson?" His throat tightens, disdain dripping from his tone, coated in venom. "To mark me?"

Hannibal doesn't miss a beat, his back turned to Will as he retrieves the wheelchair from the closet. "I simply intended to give you a fresh start." When he turns to face the other, there's a hint of a smile curling the corners of his lips and that all too familiar glow of pride creeps onto his complacent features. "One version of you dies, another is reborn. I was freeing you from the limiting circumstances you found yourself in." 

Will is about to retort, but his gaze falls towards the wheelchair and his eyebrows furrow. He doesn’t like the vulnerability the object suggests, doesn’t like the idea of Hannibal pushing him around while he’s too weak to move on his own. He isn’t comfortable with relinquishing control, but what choice does he have? Before he can voice his disdain, the other man is pulling the duvet cover back and offering his arm for Will to lean on. He doesn’t comply, staring blankly at the man with relentless disbelief. How could he expect Will to trust him after what he’s done? As if Hannibal has read his thoughts, he pulls back and straightens his suit jacket, allowing the other his space. “If you will not allow me to take you into the kitchen for your surprise, I suppose I will have to bring it to you.”

“I don’t need anymore of your surprises, Hannibal.” The words rush out of his mouth before he can stop himself, his tone rigid as ever. He doesn’t mean to sound as harsh as he does, but it’s warranted. Shaking his head, he attempts to pull himself up but the pain shoots through him and he falls back with a groan. An unwilling display of weakness. Once again, Hannibal bends down to offer his arm, but this time he doesn’t wait for Will to comply, his other arm sweeping under his legs until all of the man’s weight is nestled against his body. Lifting him is effortless and he lowers the man into the wheelchair with ease, but as soon as he has pulled away a strange rush of chills overtake Will at the absence of the other man’s warmth- there was something comforting and familiar about being pressed to his chest. In that moment, he knows exactly who had carried him out of the house that night. “So what exactly is this surprise?”

The ghost of a smile on Hannibal’s face illuminates his eyes in a way that haunts the other man, and yet he can’t look away. “The satisfaction of a surprise lies in the element of secrecy. I wouldn’t want to ruin that for you.” 

“We saw how well your last surprise went.” There is no response from the other, but the silence is confirmation enough that Hannibal knows how he’s hurt him. The question is if he cares. As Will is being wheeled out of the room, he steals one final look out of the window, still trying to piece together where in the world they are. The decor is foreign but not beyond the doctor’s usual taste, if anything the man must feel right at home. Will, on the other hand feels like a bird held captive far from home. The hallway is lit up with the same gothic light fixtures as the bedroom, the walls adorned with portraiture and scenic paintings, the occasional floral wreath adding a liveliness to the otherwise surreal ornamentation. The man already feels so out of place when he catches a glimpse of himself in the gaudy full length mirror at the end of the hall. He almost doesn’t recognize his own reflection, which isn’t an unfamiliar sensation to him- and yet he’s never felt so unlike himself. His dark curls are wild and tousled, his face pale and flushed, his eyes bloodshot and accompanied by dark circles that could be mistaken for bruises. It’s a look he’s worn before, back when he worked too hard and sleep escaped him for days. He imagines he looked just as haggard during his incarceration, but this time he feels it. Will is use to not feeling like himself, he’s even familiar with feeling like his life isn’t his own, but he isn’t accustomed to the sensation that he’s been completely broken down into something unrecognizable. He’s been changed and he knows it.   
Hannibal must have picked up on what Will was feeling, must have felt the shift in the energy. Clearing his throat, he turns the man away from the mirror and proceeds down another loudly decorated hallway, only speaking once they’ve reached the dining room. “You’ve been unconscious for quite some time, Will. You need to replenish your strength.” Will’s stomach lurches when he sees the table set for two, a thoughtfully prepared meal waiting for them. He wonders who they are having for dinner. “Braised duck with a red wine reduction,” the man explains, as if he has once again read the other’s thoughts.

“What’s the occasion? This isn’t your usual fare. Trying something new?” For the first time that evening, he can feel the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile, though the pleasantry doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a wry grin, as if he’s made a joke in spite of himself. Maybe he’s just delighted it isn’t Abigail set out and displayed on the dining table. 

“It’s a special day today, Will.”

He doesn’t like how his name sounds on Hannibal’s lips, nor is he fond of how often he seems to say it, but he can’t help but shiver when he hears it. “Oh? And what is today?” In an act of defiance, Will takes hold of the wheels of his chair and pushes himself towards the table, away from the other man. “What are we celebrating?”

“Your birthday.” 

The answer is direct, simple, and yet it baffles him. How long exactly had he been unconscious? How did Hannibal know when his birthday was? Had this been a part of the plan from the beginning? “I guess I really have been out for quite some time.” As if on cue, his stomach growls in response to the food set out before him and he wastes no time in helping himself, not waiting for the other to sit down. This pleases Hannibal, who is now standing beside him pouring them both a glass of wine. It feels as if this is the first meal he has eaten in his life and he is shameless in devouring the delicate meat. He hopes there’s more, he doesn’t know if this first helping will satiate him and he knows he can’t go much longer without being properly replenished, as Hannibal put it.

“After dinner, I will show you the surprise.” 

Will manages to swallow before speaking, his brows furrowed in concerned confusion. “This isn’t the surprise?” He watches the other closely as he takes a seat at the opposite end of the table, all the while reaching for his own glass of wine. The red liquid offers a pleasant warmth, but he can’t help but wonder when was the last time he had water? “What else is there? This is...” Enough. It had been a long time since his birthday had been celebrated, much less with a surprise. It was more than he felt necessary. Is this an apology?   
Hannibal does not indulge him in the secret, keeping himself silenced with a fairly portioned bit of duck pressed to his lips. He is slow to allow it to pass his lips, even slower to chew, savoring it in the way Will does not. To Hannibal this is a delicacy, something to take his time to enjoy. To Will this is a means of survival. Once he has cleared his plate of the meat, he starts on the vegetables that have been just as finely prepared as the main course. Their meal proceeds in silence, something Will finds unusual and unsettling. He expected the other to have more to say, as he usually does, but he can’t deny the quiet eases his aching head. When Hannibal does speak, his voice is gentle, soft as if he knows the other is in pain. “I’m eager to show you Italy, Will.”

Those words are jarring. It should put him at ease to know now exactly where they are, but it only makes him irrationally angry. Suddenly, the food tastes sour and he pushes his plate back in disgust, offering a dry laugh as he wipes his mouth on his napkin. “Is that where we are?” It’s not so much a question as it is a retort, but Hannibal takes it quite literally. 

“Yes. Do you not remember the flight here?”

“I don’t even know how you found my passport.” 

“I think you’ll enjoy Florence, it’s a city full of life and beauty-”

How interesting, he’s changed the subject. Will’s face contorts into an expression of disbelief but he forces a smile and decides to play Hannibal’s game, changing the subject once more. “The cabbage wasn’t very good.”

Hannibal wasn’t expecting this, but regardless of how jarring those words are to hear he doesn’t take personal offense; he knows Will is deflecting. Taking a bit of cabbage into his own mouth, he mulls over his next words carefully. To change the subject again would lead them in a dance around each other, a game where neither said what they truly meant but both were courting each other, nonetheless, with unpleasant words. It was a courtship Hannibal was willing to make. “The ancient Greeks believed that each individual person had a spirit present on the day of their birth and it was said that events of major change, such as birth days, welcomed malicious spirits. Everyone was born with evil-quite similar to Christianity’s theory of being born with the original sin, it seems. Candles and cakes and celebrations were used as a way to chase away these evil spirits and purify the individual. So tell me, Will, what ghosts were you born with? What sins did you manifest that you wish to cleanse yourself of?”

A thick brow arches, a hand wavering over the stem of a beautiful hand blown wine glass. “You said this was a rebirth, that I died that night. Wasn’t your intention to free me of my sins? To break the cycle of my crimes? Or was it in your design to birth me into new sin?” He lifts the glass to his lips, letting the wine wash away the hint of gratitude that lingered on his tongue. He might always hate him for what he did to Abigail, but his compliance in this delusion is silent forgiveness; he would comply with this new life he has been given, accept Hannibal’s gift no matter the price they had to pay. “Are you enjoying playing God?” 

Better the devil you know.  
A pleasant smile cracks the other’s lips as he stands to collect their dishes, and when he bends down to collect Will’s plate he lingers for a moment. Will can feel his breath hot on the back of his neck, eliciting a shiver- but it isn’t unpleasant. After a moment, the man draws back, the same smile still painted on his face. “I have a new aftershave for you, I think you’ll like it.” Will’s heart hammers in his chest as he forces a nod, his own lips drawn into a tight frown. He remains speechless, but thankfully Hannibal continues to fill the silence. “I think it’s time for the surprise.” 

“I think I’ve had enough of your gifts,” Will scoffs, a hand going to the wound that now scarred his abdomen. 

“I assure you, this won’t be the last-” 

Is he referring to the scar or the dinner? Regardless, don’t they both mean the same thing? 

“You spoil me.” Will’s voice has returned to the dry contempt he can’t for the life of him hide. He doesn’t mean to sound ungrateful, but to admit he was appreciative of any of this would cost him his last shred of sanity. He watches the other man disappear into the kitchen and he feels a wave of relief flood through him. He allows himself to breathe freely for the first time, his shoulders falling forward as he drops his guard. Eager to get away from the table where he felt suffocated, he takes hold of the wheels of his chair and pushes himself away. Exploring wasn’t easy when he was confined like this, but he finds himself positioned in front of a large arched window where he can finally see a decent view of the city. He still wouldn’t have recognized his surroundings if this was the scene he had woken up to, but this offered more perspective to what his new home would be. He knows in this moment, with much regret, that he would never leave. He’s tied to this place now.   
He doesn’t have much time for himself before Hannibal reenters, and when he turns his attention towards the other man he is instantly met with a mixture of confusion and guilt. Hannibal sets the surprise down on the table- a three tier birthday cake decorated in deep purple fondant and blue edible flowers. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time Hannibal.” He can’t rid his voice of the genuine shock and he curses himself for being so vulnerable. It had been so long since someone had gotten him a birthday cake, and he can’t recall a time anyone had ever made him a birthday cake. He approaches the table with some reluctance, watching as Hannibal cuts into the dessert. “I trust you’re not going to sing to me?” Those words earn a soft hum from the other who simply shakes his head and places a generous sized portion of cake in front of Will. 

Marbled chocolate with raspberry filling. Eyebrows furrow, hand reaching for his fork. Just like everything Hannibal made, it looks too fancy to eat but he suspects it’s more than just a visual spectacle. Even before his first forkful passes his lips, he knows it’s going to be the best cake he’s ever eaten. Hannibal is frustrating like that. He attempts to be subtle with his approval, cautious of the other man’s inflated ego, but his wide eyes betray him and he finds himself taking a second bite. Will expects the other to gloat, to make some suave remark about how eager he is to have more of the confection, but the next words out of the man’s lips cause him to stall. 

“Have you ever heard the fairy tale of Donkeyskin, Will?”

He feels as if he’s missed something, his brain working fast to try to piece together the bridge between the cake and the sudden topic of kid’s stories. He allows himself time to process the question, reaching for his glass of wine and only speaking once he’s washed down the taste of chocolate. “It sounds familiar, but I didn’t really spend my childhood swapping fantasies with other kids. Why don’t you refresh my memory?” He feels those familiar hazel eyes fixed on him with such intensity that he becomes uneasy, his heart beating fast in his chest and his mouth becoming dry. Why did Hannibal have to look at him like that?  
“It is a story of a king with a beautiful wife and all the riches he could desire, including an extraordinary donkey whose droppings were gold.” 

“Sounds painful-”

“One day his wife was dying and made the king promise her that he would only marry again when he found a woman whose beauty paralleled hers. The king mourned his wife, but in time he began to seek another. Over time it became clear to him that the only woman who was as beautiful as his wife was their daughter.” Will’s eyebrows raise, his face contorting into a questionable expression, but he doesn’t interrupt. “Frightened and miserable, the princess runs to her fairy godmother who tells her to make impossible demands as a condition to the proposal: a dress as bright as the sun, a dress the color of the moon, and a dress the color of the sky. The fairy godmother did not expect the king to produce these dresses, but he is so eager to fulfill his promise to his wife that he has the finest dresses made for his daughter. Perplexed, she returns to her fairy godmother who tells her to ask for the skin of his marvelous donkey- the one that produces gold. Upon receiving this last gift, the princess dresses herself in the donkey skin and flees to a royal farm where she is allowed to work in the kitchens despite her hideous appearance.”

“Is there a reason you’re telling me this story or is this what you consider dining room entertainment?” 

The other continues as if he has not heard Will’ interjection, crossing his hands in his lap and leaving his cake untouched. “On certain royal feast days, the princess would wear one of the dresses gifted to her by her father and on one of these days she encountered a prince who fell in love with her at once. He declared that the only thing that would cure him of his longing would be a cake baked by the woman.”

Did he do something to the cake?  
“When the princess baked the cake, one of her rings fell in and when the prince found it he vowed that he would only marry the woman whose finger it fit. When he found Donkeyskin and discovered the ring fit her, they married and lived happily ever after.”

It’s in that moment that Will feels something foreign in his mouth, heavy against his tongue and coated in the cake’s raspberry filling. Blue eyes snap up to meet Hannibal’s, his own gaze filled with contempt. How dare he put him in this position? He knows what is is before he spits the trinket out into his napkin, the silver leaving a metallic taste in his mouth. As he looks down at the ring in his hands, the whole world slows down. It feels like both a promise and a threat; a promise that he isn’t disposable to Hannibal but a threat to his freedom. And yet he knows without question what his answer will be. He slips the ring on, the metal encompassing his finger. He feels suffocated, as if the ring were tight around his throat instead, but he also feels a sense of gratitude and relief. Their courtship was finally over. As the pressure in Will’s chest releases, he finds himself reaching for his fork once more. 

“I could have choked.”

“Happy birthday, Will.”

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter: @missouterspace3


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